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Riley took over gently. She explained that the Morozovs had a protected property outside Boston. There would be no Bellandi guards or forced departure. A car would wait at the end of the street, and Paolo and Teresa would get inside it. Alessia could remain on the phone the entire time. They could bring whatever they wanted, and no one would enter their safe house without permission.

“What about my plants?” Teresa demanded.

“You can bring all of them if you want,” Riley promised.

“There are seventeen.”

“Maxim has a very large car,” Riley smirked, and Maxim slowly turned his head, but she continued without concern. “Bring the basil first. Fresh basil is delicious.”

* * *

Later that day, I sent two teams to secure the street and instructed them to remain out of sight until Paolo opened the front door. Riley stayed on the line with Teresa. Alessia listened to her grandparents gather coats, documents, prescriptions, and at least one basil plant.

When they finally left for the safehouse, Alessia ended the call and turned to me, her eyes warm. She reached for me and touched the back of my hand, and a surge of fire raced through me. I didn’t move.

“Thank you,” she said quietly.

“Of course.”

She needed to know Daddy would always take care of her.

The thought came out of nowhere, but I didn’t push it away.

I don’t know why.

CHAPTER 10

Alessia

The next day…

The Morozov women entered the guest room at Maxim’s estate carrying coffee, garment bags, and the determined expressions of a set of women who had come up with a plan without running it by the men downstairs.

Riley set a coffee on the dresser. “Drink that before Kit gets here. She gets impatient when people ask questions without caffeine.”

“I do not,” Kit said, entering behind her.

“You absolutely do.”

Sloane followed with two garment bags slung over one shoulder and a pair of oversized sunglasses pushed into her dark hair. Amy came last, carrying the bag that held my Nocturne costume as carefully as though the black crystal bodysuit belonged in her gallery.

Amy unzipped the bag and lifted the costume into the morning light. Away from Nocturne, it looked smaller than I remembered. Less like armor and more like several strategically placed strips of black fabric held together by crystals, tenacity, and an unreasonable quantity of wishful thinking.

She turned the hip toward the window. “I just noticed this. Did you modify it?”

“The original seam twisted,” I explained. “The costume pulled to the left whenever I used the pole.”

Amy studied the French knots beneath the stones. “Did you do it by hand?”

“A machine would have flattened the velvet.”

Her gaze lifted to mine, and her eyes lit up.

“How many costumes have you altered?”

“Most of mine. Some for the other women. The club buys pieces that photograph well and fall apart if someone breathes a little bit too aggressively.”

Amy spread the costume across the bed and smoothed one crystal into place. “Have you ever considered designing them?”